


In The French Fashion

by Langerhan



Category: Good Omens (Radio)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Condoms, Crowley Has Two Penises (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Multi, Safer Sex, Sex Work, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24114850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Langerhan/pseuds/Langerhan
Summary: When Crowley sees Aziraphale in Tracy, he's struck with the overwhelming desire to do filthy things with the angel and the woman who are sharing that dress. Fortunately, both Aziraphale and Tracy are amenable.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley/Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell & Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 56
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	In The French Fashion

"Well," Tracy says, and Crowley would do obscene things for that smile, "I suppose it's not like he hasn't been inside me already."

It's Aziraphale who twists his hands and looks anxious. He's been anxious about the whole bloody thing, as if this is any worse than all the rest of what they've done. Not _adverse_ , just – anxious. "Sergeant Shadwell-"

"I think one last big heist would appeal to the old romantic," Tracy shrugs, "and I'm hardly going to afford the extension we want on his witch-finder pay. No offence, dear."

"None taken," Crowley hedges on both their behalves. He hasn't been keeping up to date with London wages and he doubts Aziraphale has either. Money is a sort of afterthought for both of them; a funny little scrip they're glad enough to grant Shadwell for his moves in defeating evil and/or good.

“Ah. Well. In that case, yes, Madame Tracy, we'd be very willing to provide you with some recompense in exchange for your companionship.”

“He means there's two grand on the bedside table if you fuck the both of us.”

“I understood,” Tracy says, eyeballing them both over her cup of tea, and there it is; the steel edge which presses up hard against Crowley's libido. “Been a while since I've done anything full service, mind. Usually I'd ask for a reference or two, but I think we can skip that part, what with you both being Mr Shadwell's colleagues and maybe angels of the Lord and all.”

“Three grand if you can see us tonight at my place,” Crowley says quickly before Aziraphale can think too hard about the angels of the Lord part.

“Four grand, tonight, at one of your fancy hotels.”

“Three and a half, my flat, but the angel fills in your independent contractor tax return in April.”

“Four grand, your flat, and you're the one who does my tax return.”

She knows Anthony Crowley's a flash bastard and flash bastards account creatively. He grins. They have a deal.

There are rules, of course, because you can't have a deal without a contract. They are as follows:

1\. French letters at all times. When Aziraphale gently points out that neither of them can transmit anything, Tracy turns on her haughty glare and then Crowley with it.  
2\. No occult funny business. This amuses Crowley, since technically what they're getting up to is by definition occult funny business. Tracy finds it less amusing, mutters darkly about the Annunciation, and refers them back to rule 1.  
3\. Tracy won't laugh if Aziraphale gets soppy. (Crowley leans over while he's out making tea; offers her another monkey to respond like she finds it charming instead of ridiculous. Her emotions are her own, she says, although she'd never laugh at a client unless that was explicitly agreed beforehand. And no, she wouldn't laugh at soppiness. Or a speech impediment if, hypothetically, a client's started up when he got aroused. Not even if the client's boyfriend shivered and started waxing poetic about his favourite serpent. Tracy takes the £500 as a bribe not to tell Aziraphale about this conversation.)  
4\. An agreement of the sorts of acts they might be up for, which has Crowley sulking about the lack of surprise but appeals to Aziraphale's sensible curator side.  
5\. An agreement that Tracy will stay the night and snuggle, which has Aziraphale sulking about having to share but appeals to Crowley's cold snake side.

Half eight, they've agreed, so there's no reason for Crowley to be pacing the floor as soon as the clock strikes the hour. Everyone's going to turn up even if he has to floor it to the bookshop and drag Aziraphale out by the ear. Tracy will be harder to drag, mostly because he doesn't want to drag her. He wants to worship her. Fall down on his knees, take her in his mouth and receive unholy and effable communion while Aziraphale holds him and murmurs dirtily in his ear.

Aziraphale turns up at quarter past. It's an effort for Crowley to pull his hand off his cock, pull his trousers up and saunter into the hall.

"You look pink," Aziraphale observes when he opens the door. Maybe expecting the dirty talk to be poetic was a mistake. Crowley grabs him to pull him inside; if they can't do it with words, salacious acts will have suffice. He flicks his tongue against the angel's mouth, tasting or smelling arousal and steeled fear.

"I brought a bottle of Merlot," Aziraphale says conversationally, as if they're about to have a polite dinner party where everyone goes home at the end and nobody gets fucked in the arse while performing cunnilingus on an incredibly well paid independent contractor. (The last polite dinner party Crowley went to where that happened was in Rome. Any subsequent dinner parties where it had happened were impolite from start to finish.)

"Wonderful," Crowley replies, takes it from him and puts it on the wine rack. They can have it in a few hours' time after Crowley's fucked that frown out of him. "Kiss me."

Aziraphale's eyelashes flutter. It's what Crowley thinks of as his pastoral look; the innocent shepherd boy about to be ravished, his curls pulled back by the degenerate landlord who's going to bugger the naivety out of him. He likes to play the naif sometimes, even when they're kissing like they're both about to drown.

They're both hard and gasping by the time Tracy knocks on the door. Crowley smooths his hair down, throws himself finger guns in the mirror, and adjusts himself before answering.

"Coo-ee," Tracy says brightly, and gives a little wave. Her dress is a pale blue number, nipped in at the waist with a generous knee-length skirt. Crowley's almost sure she's wearing petticoats underneath it. Her red hair (and it has to be dyed, there's no way that colour didn't come out of a bottle) is plaited and pinned gently back above her white shawl.

All the blood that would be helping Crowley's brain is redirected, leaving him speechless and stupid.

“Madame Tracy,” he eventually manages, raising her hand to kiss, “charmed.”

“I'm sure you are,” she replies. “Got anywhere I can get m'self sorted?”

He's got a bathroom which is fashionably and uncomfortably minimalist. He's never had to call a plumber, which is something of a disappointment after watching the very informative VHS on plumbers and how one can pay them he bought from the shop across from A Z Fell's, but the taps and drains all work as expected, so Tracy can do whatever she has to do to sort herself out. (Crowley has a vague idea that it might be digestive. He's never heard of a diaphragm before.) She's quick, in and out before Crowley's even started getting Aziraphale undressed.

"Alright, lads?"

It's low and affectionate and Crowley's never been embarrassed, not once in six millennia, but he thinks the dark and crawling thing in the pit of his stomach trying to throw him to his knees might be close.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Aziraphale asks after a beat. It's amazing that it's taken him this long to offer.

"I'm alright, cheers," replies Tracy. She crosses her arms. "Oh, don't let me interrupt. I was quite enjoying the show."

Aziraphale blinks slowly up, his lips still wet and parted. "Well. We mustn't keep our audience waiting."

Crowley feels a surge of affection for this ridiculous bloody angel who's sinking his knees onto the parquet floor in the hall. He puts a hand in his curls and grips tightly as Aziraphale starts slowly pulling down his fly, then stutters when Tracy's hand joins his, no longer audience but participant. She presses herself up against Crowley's side and slinks a hand round his waist.

"What did I tell the two of you?" she asks in a stage whisper. Like a bad magic trick, she pulls a prophylactic from his pocket that he's sure wasn't there before. The hand which isn't stilling Aziraphale's head pulls the packet open; the dexterity is impressive. She holds it between two fingers (because the hand on Aziraphale's head can't move, it needs to stay there, tugging at his curls), slips the hook of Crowley’s fly free from its bar and starts to lower his zip.

"Madame," Aziraphale says, with the outraged bastard in his voice that makes Crowley's hungry soul leap, "I don't know what sort of coward you assume I am, but I assure you I can swallow more than one."

Tracy pauses. Pulls her hand off Aziraphale and curls it against Crowley's shoulder conspiratorially. "Does he think he's meant to eat these?"

Crowley groans and puts a fist up to his face. "No. He's talking about my penises."

"Penes," Aziraphale corrects.

"Bloody Mary, Aziraphale, we're not speaking Latin any more, we can use the–"

"I just think that grammatically speaking, it makes more sense to–"

Tracy taps Aziraphale sharply across the cheek. "Nobody likes a pedant, dear." Tucks a curl behind his ear. "You seem like you're good with your mouth, though. How about you try putting this on with it?"

Crowley sucks in a sharp hiss of breath like helium from a balloon. Tracy only unzips him enough to pull the top one through, and he can feel the sharp kiss of metal teeth against it. Her hand is butterfly-light when she presses the French letter against the tip of his cock and leaves it there. He thinks, for one wild moment, that he'll be left frozen, trying to keep it balanced like a party trick – but then she puts her hand back in Aziraphale's hair and guides his mouth forward.

Looking like a middle-aged shopkeeper with bad knees has never stopped Aziraphale from being able to lift enough to put a brickie to shame. Before Crowley's even had a chance to gasp, he puts both hands round his arse and lifts him into his mouth and up into the air in an obscene balletic tableau. Crowley's sure his arse will be bruised tomorrow from the tight grip. It's a fair price to pay for Tracy's raised eyebrow smirk.

Being up high draws a tight line from his head down to his crotch. Aziraphale balances him for a moment before stepping them both slowly to the sofa. Crowley's arse squeaks against the leather and he gasps, taking in all the oxygen he's been missing out on until his chest feels full to burst. He thrusts his hips up gently, but Tracy splays her fingers out on his stomach to still him.

"Oh no," she drawls, amused and indulgent, "I don't think so."

He sticks his body down. Aziraphale holds him in his mouth and Crowley can feel the soft breath from his nose blowing across him. They've never done it like this before; the latex makes him want to thrust and squirm. Only Tracy, scratching her nails slowly up his chest, stops him from trying to fuck the angel's throat.

"Kiss me," he manages eventually. Aziraphale's eyes flutter open. "No – not you, angel, you're great where you are. Tracy. Please."

Aziraphale drags his teeth across his head at the same time as Tracy drags hers against his bottom lip. Spending time as a snake means he's used to the feeling of rawness, of tearing and the first holy break. Logically he knows the same thing won't happen when he has two arms, two legs and a full head of hair. (Illogically he thinks it might as well – that tomorrow morning he'll find himself pure and born anew.)

Tracy kisses like the edge of a cliff. Aziraphale swallows like a landslide. Crowley spends a few minutes drowning in warm desire, sweat beading on his brow and pooling underneath his shirt, before emerging into the sunlight.

"Let's take this to the bedroom," he croaks. Aziraphale pulls backwards with a wet pop and pulls himself forward on Crowley's thighs so they can kiss.

"All good?" Aziraphale mutters into his mouth.

"Love you," Crowley drawls back. He slides the condom off his cock and wraps Aziraphale's fist round it instead, fucking slowly upwards, the ghost of Tracy's hand keeping him slow. "Love this."

Crowley pulls his trousers all the way down so he doesn't have to zip them up. Tracy's undone a few buttons already and he undoes the rest, shrugs off his shirt and pulls the vest over his head. They make it to the bedroom by clinging to each other. At one point Tracy grins, wicked by not damned, and puts a hand on one of his cocks to lead him forward. Aziraphale follows her lead and takes the other one. They collapse onto the bed, sweaty and tangled. There's enough room for all three of them on the mattress, just as Crowley had assumed there would be. Tracy shuffles up against the headboard to watch Aziraphale undress. Normally Crowley would be the one staring as his angel peels off layer after layer. Instead he stays on his belly, rutting against the sheets as Tracy bites her lip, watching each part of Aziraphale's undressing reflected in her expressions.

Aziraphale coughs when he's finished. “My dear Madame,” he says, “would you be open to my taking you in the style of the Greeks?”

Crowley rolls over lazily. He wants to throw out something snarky about thighs and olive oil, but Aziraphale's expression is so earnest that he can't quite bring himself to do it.

“Of course, dear,” Tracy says warmly. “Just remember now, slow and steady wins the race. Lots of lube. Do you need any help putting your mac on?”

Crowley deserves some sort of award for not laughing at that. Aziraphale does not, in fact, need any help putting his mac on; he does it himself, biting his lip as he pinches the reservoir and slides it down over his leaking cock.

“Hand me one,” Crowley says. He puts his own condom on – this time on his lower cock, which is feeling a bit starved of attention but perked up considerably when Aziraphale was trying to drag him into the bedroom with it. He strokes himself a few times and copies Aziraphale's method in rolling it down.

“That top one better not be going anywhere,” Tracy warns.

Crowley kisses her, smearing red lipstick greedily across his mouth. “Can I rub off against your stomach, or would you rather we have a barrier for that too?”

“As long as it's not getting stuck in,” she replies, and starts pulling up her skirts.

It takes an age and a heartbeat before her hands are all the way up her thighs and she pulls her cotton knickers down as though neither of them are watching. They're dropped in a crumpled white heap at the foot of the bed, and Crowley can see Aziraphale twitch with the desire to fold them and put them away.

“Come here, you fussy prick,” Crowley says instead. He pulls Aziraphale close enough to kiss and can feel himself bumping against the angel. It's easy, then, to have lube on his hand (and to hope Tracy's not watching too closely – lube which wasn't there before would almost definitely count as occult funny business) and to rub the two of them together; to catch Aziraphale's gasping breath in his mouth.

Tracy's hand is under her skirts. She rubs idly while she watches them with her fingers hidden under the layers of cotton and tulle. When she catches Crowley watching she pulls them up to her mouth, sucking and making eye contact the whole time as though this is all perfectly normal. Maybe it is, for her. Maybe it's only Crowley who thinks it's _special_ , whose stomach twists with the aching desire to make it _special_ for the angel who owns his heart and the woman who let him ride her.

He pushes Aziraphale down and guides Tracy over as gently as he once guided a unicorn into Shem's stable, although with entirely different intentions.

She's a solid weight against his chest, comfortable but unfamiliar. It's been a while since he's been allowed to press up against someone's breasts without feeling Aziraphale's grimy ink-stained fingers pulling at the muscle of his heart. It's different with the angel’s eyes on him. (The only organs getting mauled this evening will be external.)

Aziraphale watches them with open interest as Crowley kisses Tracy again.

"Is this the right angle?" Crowley murmurs. He can ask questions here and neither of them will laugh. Neither of them will do anything worse than laughing. "Can you sit down?"

Tracy glances back and catches something in Aziraphale's expression. He's pushed himself up onto his forearms, and Crowley reaches round to pull up Tracy's skirts, show Aziraphale her arse before she laughs a warning and slaps his hand away.

"Cheeky," she says. "Get him to sit up a bit if we're doing it like this."

Crowley doesn't get Aziraphale to do anything, but fortunately he sits up against the pillows all by himself and puts a hand on the base of his cock, ready to guide it in. Tracy looks up at Crowley with her eyes wide and smirks until he kisses her. When she sinks down, her mouth freezes for a moment, making quiet noises against Crowley's teeth until she shudders and breaks away.

He kisses the soft skin of her neck; with Aziraphale he'd suck at it, biting a dark purple line to make his mark, but with Tracy he's more delicate than that. She thinks he’s an angel, so he must be the best man, the best lover, it's possible to be in just one night. He has to make this perfect for both of them – for all of them.

When Aziraphale's eyes open and he smiles, blissful and open-mouthed, Crowley has no choice but to lean forward, pressing Tracy against his chest, her hair against his cheek, and pepper kisses all over the angel's face.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks lowly, unsure whether he's speaking into Aziraphale's mouth or Tracy's ear.

“Immensely,” Aziraphale answers.

Tracy's warm between them and her skirts rustle softly around their thighs. Crowley can smell the foundation, hairspray and baby powder on her, hitting him right in whatever the madeleine-orientated part of his brain is which takes him back to a secret meeting in a Soho pub decades before. Crowley spent swathes of the sixties appreciating miniskirts, bob haircuts and knee-high boots. He never met Tracy, but she must've looked as spectacular then as she does now.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, this time absolutely sure who he's asking, “Tracy, please, let me fuck you.”

“Go on then,” she smiles, only slightly out of breath. “The Lord gave us two holes for a reason.”

Aziraphale looks positively pained, although Crowley can't tell if it's at the blasphemy or at the misinterpretation of human anatomy. Underneath the petticoats, he slides in, and _oh_ isn't she talented. She lifts herself up before sitting comfortably back down, and Crowley can feel himself inside her, and feel himself dragging against her pubic hair and leaking against the tight silk bodice round her waist.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, breathy and wondrous, pressing his lips against Crowley's mouth and waiting for him to kiss back.

The beautiful blue skirt is splayed out between them like a crumpled fan. Kissing Aziraphale is easy. (Kissing Aziraphale is always easy these days.) He can feel the angel's shuddering breath and gentle moans in his mouth, pressing their soft lips together over Tracy's shoulder like the first bite of a peach.

Aziraphale's cock and Tracy's enviable muscle control make everything tight, verging on too much, and Crowley can feel himself leaving sweat marks across Tracy's chest.

“Darling,” he says when he can finally catch his breath, “pull the zip down, I'm going to ruin her dress.”

“S'machine washable,” Tracy reassures him with a lazy grin, “and it's been through worse.”

Crowley can't think of anything worse than what he wants to do, although most of his darkest desires are metaphysical and will tarnish her soul rather than her petticoats. He could ask Aziraphale to step forward and possess her. He could do it himself, ride the angel and his own cock, face an empty shell of himself. He could whisper _the extension on the house isn't enough, don't you want more, look at how rich they are, you could take more_ – he could, but he won't, because Tracy's pure, and she's beautiful, and they've already made a contract which has no small print whatsoever.

Pressing tightly against her, Crowley can feel heat curl up in the base of his stomach. He pulls out with an obscene wet sound and takes both his cocks in one hand, rubbing tight latex against skin. 

“Alright dear?” Aziraphale asks. He's flushed pink and he's reached up to put a hand on each of Tracy's breasts, pulling her close against him, occasionally pinching just ever so slightly while she moans.

“Yeah,” Crowley breathes. It would be fun enough to finish himself off watching Aziraphale bugger Tracy in a private peepshow designed for the edification of precisely one demon, but he has other plans.

He moves himself down until he's crawling on his belly, watching the angles of Aziraphale's hands move over Tracy's curves like a cellist. She leans back into his lap with her legs splayed forward enough for Crowley to follow them upwards. Her stockings are smooth, possibly even silk, and it's tempting to stay here for a while, or to rub himself off against them, though he's never had any particular thing for legs.

With blue like sky up above him, Crowley shuffles until he's underneath it. It's warm, sweaty and earthy, ever so human and ever so real. He unclips Tracy's garters to roll a stocking down and kiss back down her thigh, mouth to tissue paper skin, before returning to where he's just been.

Tracy's got a hand on top of his head through her skirts and she's giggling girlishly at something Aziraphale's murmured to her, breathless and, he can only hope, aroused. Her furled lips are a dark champagne, soft against his tongue, and she makes a different sort of noise when he presses up inside her, rubbing his face against the coarse hair she's done nothing stylish with.

Down here is dark and Crowley can feel the unnecessary breath hot and heavy in his lungs. He puts a hand at the base of Aziraphale's cock, feeling the tight ring of latex, the smooth and slippery edge of where he keeps sinking into the taut skin of Tracy's arse. When Tracy rises up again, he pulls Aziraphale out, sticks two fingers in and feels Tracy flutter around him. He licks around his hand and up to her cunt again, mouth sloppy and wanting against her. He can taste where Aziraphale's been, the rubber slide of slick desire, and echoes of his own self chasing it.

One day, maybe, they'll do this without the condoms, and then he'll be allowed to lap Aziraphale's spunk out of her - but for now it's Tracy, just Tracy, as pure as salted snow melting in his mouth and running down his chin.

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale murmurs, “where would you have me?”

“Fuck me,” Crowley replies into Tracy's cunt, only just decipherable, “fuck my arse.”

“Remember to change first,” Tracy instructs. She's pulled her skirts up now and has curled her fingers through Crowley's short hair, directing him like a circus ringmaster to go harder and deeper.

Crowley can feel her move back against the pillows as Aziraphale swaps position. She sinks into them, relaxing as she'd previously relaxed against Aziraphale's soft stomach. He can feel the warm rustle of skirts around his ears as Aziraphale draws the zip down slowly and lifts Tracy's dress up over her head, exposing Crowley and all his sins to the world.

He swallows, gasps, and looks up. Tracy's looking down at him with something close enough to fondness to make him squirm.

“Good boy,” she says, “oh, aren't you doing ever so well? Now, take a deep breath,” and he does so, hearing the tear of another condom behind him (he should definitely get points downstairs for how much plastic and rubber they're going through tonight), breathing in Tracy until he's desperate to fuck her again, “and try to relax.”

It takes the friction of Aziraphale sliding all the way into him with a grunt for Crowley to realise how long he's been on edge. It's something they do for fun sometimes, but not something he's been conscious of tonight until it overtakes him and he's whining and begging for Aziraphale to touch him – which he does, thankfully, mercifully, wrapping a hand round and pulling a little too roughly until Crowley shudders and pulses into the condom.

“Pax,” he hisses, and Aziraphale stills. “A moment, pax.”

Aziraphale pulls out slowly, clinging on tightly enough that Crowley can feel the bruising ache from earlier in the evening. He puts a hand under Tracy's and uses it to pull Crowley up from where he's buried.

“My apologies, Madame. May I borrow him for a while?”

Crowley's vision has started to blur around the edges in a familiar sort of way. He's hot and panting as Aziraphale pulls him by the hair up to his chest, resting his head against his heart and wrapping both arms around him.

“There, there,” he murmurs, “my poor little fiend, was it all a bit much? Don't worry, dearest, we'll take care of you.”

Tracy shuffles up and wraps round his other side, taking her lead from Aziraphale. “Poor dear,” she sing-songs into his temple, “there, there, pet, you're fine. Let's just have a bit of a cuddle, yeah?”

The cuddle is warm and dark. Tracy, a consummate professional, is wearing a very expensive and very lacy white bra which is an incredibly human little feat of engineering. Crowley can feel it press softly up against his face, and with Aziraphale on the other side he can breathe, juddering but deep.

“Madame Tracy, would you mind if I left you in charge a little while? I'd like to fetch our dear boy a glass of water.”

“Of course. You just leave him with me.”

Crowley's about to complain that he's fine, and the two of them don't need to fuss, but then Aziraphale is gone and Tracy's hand is on his softening prick. She pulls the condom off gently and ties it in a knot (smart; they should've been doing it all along).

“I could've done that myself,” he complains half-heartedly.

“Oh, I know,” she says. She kisses him lightly on the side of his mouth and it feels like it might be the most intimate thing they've done this evening. “You just rest for now, yeah? Aziraphale will be back in a minute.”

When Aziraphale gets back, Crowley is comfortable. Tracy has one hand across his back and one on his cocks, and she's rocking him backwards and forwards with the two. They will never, ever talk about this. Crowley will burn Aziraphale's collection of Freud if he has to.

“Well. You're looking better,” Aziraphale says wryly.

Crowley wordlessly puts a hand out for the glass of iced water and downs it much more quickly than a human with a gag reflex would do.

“What do you think? Shall we take him for a ride?”

Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow before he smiles and agrees.

Crowley snuggles down until he's flat on the bed with his hands behind his head. All he has to do now is watch, and he does; watch as Aziraphale unhooks Tracy's bra and places it carefully over the chair, then starts touching her breasts again. Without the bra they hang lower on her chest, two perfect pears on a summer's day, enough of a handful for Aziraphale to put his face between them and lick. (Crowley puts a hand on himself. All he _has_ to do is watch, but that doesn't mean it's all he's _going_ to do.)

“Condoms?” Tracy asks, looking Crowley right in the eye, cool as anything, while Aziraphale slips a finger up inside her, mouthing at her nipple.

“Bedside table,” he manages to hiss. He deserves some sort of prize for this. A medal, perhaps. Some sort of commendation for infecting his block of flats with more lust in one evening than the place usually sees in a year.

It's Aziraphale who steps forward for them. He kisses Crowley gently on the forehead when he kneels down, and his big grey eyes are filled with such awful _tenderness_ that Crowley has to turn away. He looks at Tracy instead, who's climbed up across his thighs (he can feel everything they've been doing in the warmth she's pressed against him) to studiously inspect his groin.

“I reckon I'll take the front one,” she announces, which is precisely what she does, rolling the condom down and then herself onto it in one fluid motion that has Crowley gasping. She leans forward until her breasts are pressed up against him, rubbing close while Aziraphale is still fussing with his wrapper. She's hot and close and Crowley can feel her arousal pulsing up against him while Aziraphale sinks himself down, pulling Tracy back so he can put his hands on her breasts once again.

Aziraphale winks lasciviously down at Crowley. He and Tracy are working some kind of miracle of core strength and closeness, the two of them working together to stop Crowley's thighs from going dead while they ride him, both using different muscles to pull, stopping him from bucking up.

“Kiss her,” Crowley hisses, “angel, please, Tracy, kiss him.”

Tracy leans a little to the side. Aziraphale closes his eyes, tilts his head and he kisses Tracy gently, their mouths soft against each other. Crowley finally finds the energy to lower his hand and brush his thumb over Tracy's clit, which has her squeaking slightly.

“You're so beautiful,” Crowley says, “both of you, you're gorgeous.”

Tracy has a line of sweat against her red hairline and Crowley would lick it off if he had the energy to lift himself up. Instead he watches, cocks pulsing, heart thumping, as Aziraphale strokes her cheek gently, pinching her nipple with his other hand while Crowley plays with her clit, spreading her wetness along herself until she starts to shake.

Aziraphale must be rubbing himself off against her arse because it's not long before his lips part and he makes the same face Crowley's seen in the bookshop, in his bedroom, pressed up against a mirror in the Ritz, in the Bentley, on the sofa, the same gasping loss of control and fine motor function that he’d be able to paint with his eyes closed.

Tracy collapses against his chest. She's warm and breathing deeply, and the scent of faint hairspray, strong arousal and mid-level perfume is enough for Crowley to come for the second and third time in the evening.

There's a moment or two before all of them start to giggle. Crowley's not quite sure who's started it but it would be worth the four grand by itself.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, lifting himself up slowly like a sack of potatoes, “was it everything you hoped for, dear boy?”

Crowley stretches noisily until Tracy pats a hand across his mouth with a pop. She giggles, and Crowley thinks for a second it's the giggle of a much younger woman, but no – this is Tracy, confident, wholesome and pure, with all her stories and all her skills, laughing because they can be silly together.

“Come on,” Crowley says, and he manages to sit up somehow, manages to lift Tracy off him while she shrieks and makes a show of batting him away, “time for sleep, I think.”

He manages to brush his teeth before sprawling back into bed, kicking the condoms onto the floor for Aziraphale to fuss about tomorrow. He and Aziraphale give Tracy the bathroom to herself so she can perform whatever normal human ablutions people get up to these days; she emerges in a blue nightgown with a scarf wrapped round her hair and much less make up on her face.

“Madame Tracy,” Aziraphale mutters drowsily from the bed, “thank you ever so much for this evening.”

“You're four grand's worth of welcome, dear,” she replies warmly and slips under the covers. “Move over.”

She lays down in between them. Puts a hand on Aziraphale's waist and lets Crowley wrap two round her. Wishes them both goodnight and snuggles until she's comfortable. It's easy to sleep with her between them, and Crowley does so, and he dreams of love and Merlot until the sun wakes him on a fresh new day.

**Author's Note:**

> First thanks go to [the prompt writer](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2088025#cmt2088025) who pointed out how _incredibly_ horny radio Crowley sounds when he sees Madame Tracy. 
> 
> Second thanks go to [the incredible writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridians_of_Madness/pseuds/Meridians_of_Madness) on the Discord server who made various front covers for various fics in the style of Penguin Classics, and who I hope won't mind if I link to the fic for this one [here](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/647663510607888384/708603474866339890/Langerhan.png), as it's utterly charming and far classier than this fic deserves.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] In the French Fashion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24232162) by [Gorillazgal86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorillazgal86/pseuds/Gorillazgal86)




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